Switchblade Hearts
by Child of the Ashes
Summary: Grimmjow is a killer searching for something he lost. Ichigo just wants to get away in one piece. Three lives, endless possibility, one chance to get it right.


Title: Switchblade Hearts

Warnings: Language, smut, Grimmjow.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Authorial Notice:

I don't know what I'm doing anymore. It's been so long since I've written anythinnnnng, but this story wouldn't leave me alone.

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Frankie was a killer with a switchblade heart  
He kept his enemies close and his edges sharp  
It was the steel in his eyes kept the boys in line  
He kept his suits clean and his watch on time

Then he met a sweet girl from Tennessee  
She'd come to work at the wartime factory  
And she'd take his arm and they'd promenade  
Down by the water near the old arcade

It was the boys down the joint who called him out  
She jumped in between before Frankie could shout  
And it all unraveled in the blink of an eye  
There was the cough of a pistol and her mournful cry

Frankie put the boys in the ground that night  
But ever since that day Frankie ain't been right  
He sits in a booth tucked away from the sun  
And his suit is dirty and his watch don't run

Some nights after the town turns in  
Frankie wanders down to where the story begins  
And with a sliver of a smile and a far-off stare  
He starts swayin' to the music only he can hear

— Ernest Troost, _Switchblade Heart_

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.

There's a loaded gun pointed at his head, and Ichigo is trying hard not to be irritated about it.

The brief idea that he should be more concerned comes and goes, but after everything, honestly, the novelty is wearing off. But more than that, he's starting to get a handle on how Grimmjow ticks.

Grimmjow isn't going to kill him. He doesn't consider Ichigo enough of a threat for that. Even after Ichigo's escaped more times than anyone is still counting, beat the ever-living hell out of Grimmjow's men—_how many times now?—_ and just been a general nuisance in the man's life, Grimmjow still thinks of him as a toy. Something to play with until he's bored again.

Sometimes, Ichigo hates the bastard. Sometimes, he thinks he could kill him, no problem.

But then, there's times like now, when Ichigo isn't sure he was ever even alive before meeting this man.

That piercing blue gaze scrapes down him and he nearly shivers, knows Grimmjow's thinking of throwing him on one of the poorly cleaned tables and making him beg in other ways that have nothing to do with embedding a bullet into his brain.

He could play into that, he's sure, but instead Ichigo sighs like he's uninterested or like he just doesn't care that there's a persuasive, little Beretta M9 pressed into his forehead hard enough to leave a mark.

"Hurry up already, asshole. My knees are getting sore."

.

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_Five weeks ago._

_._

To him, it happened in slow motion.

As unexpected as the lead taking a bullet in an action flick. It caught his chest. Dead center. Then sticky, red liquid was seeping through his shirt in an expanding, imperfect stain.

His eyes flicked up to the faces of the friends surrounding him in a circle.

Shock engraved every detail into his brain.

Renji's jaw hung open at a comic angle.

Ishida's eyes widened, glasses sliding down his nose.

Keigo giggled.

Inoue's hand covered her mouth.

Chad blinked.

Rukia rolled her eyes.

"Fool. Why were you standing in the way of my arm?"

He gaped at her. It took a long second to form words around his indignant outrage. "What the hell, Rukia?"

Ichigo mopped at the drink seeping into his favorite henley with his hands, gathering icy slush and dumping it onto the table. Holy shit, it was cold, and it smelled like some tropical fruit mix he couldn't place.

With a huff, he angled her a fixed glare. "I'm sitting in the same place I've been sitting all night. Look at where you're slinging your arms next time. What the fuck were you even doing?"

She shrugged and he blew out a breath.

There was no reason to yell. The little disaster was too tipsy to realize she'd just flung most of her drink over him.

And he'd _liked_ this shirt.

He clicked his tongue, scowling as he stood. His friends made up a huge, well-loved, chunk of his life, but he needed a break.

"I'm going to clean up."

Ignoring the protests that followed behind him, he did his best not to glower over his shoulder as he picked a path through the edge of the dance floor.

_Do I look like I'm having a good time? Give it a rest already._

He had no idea why he couldn't just relax. He'd tried to smile, tried to laugh. But all he could think was that maybe if he ran now, he could save himself the embarrassment of being asked to leave when their little gathering got out of hand.

What a headache.

Four hours earlier, when Renji was doing his best to sell Ichigo on this all-encompassing tribulation of a birthday party, honestly, Ichigo's first response had been _hell-fucking-no_. Not after the last time. Not after _any_ time they'd ever all gone out together. But with the hour of needling, followed by all of his closest friends showing up anyway, it was either agree or let his sensibly sized apartment be turned into a celebratory war zone.

He was still convinced it'd been the best choice. Experience taught him trying to convince his landlord a huge burn stain in the middle of the carpet shouldn't come out of his deposit, was a losing battle.

The crowd closed around him and he slowed some, taking in the club with mixed feelings.

Loud music sounded like it thumped straight out of the walls— everything vibrating with thick, low tones that shook his internal organs. The place was dim and oppressive, stuffed full of swaying bodies. Lights flashed from the ceiling several stories above, illuminating a sea of heads in a white then blue glow, and if he looked up from the edge of the floor, he could see the VIP areas and bored looking faces staring down over the rails.

He liked his friends. Would _die_ for his friends. But all the loudness, bizarre habits, and _property damage_ wore heavy on his nerves after longtime exposure. Getting a few minutes alone wasn't much to ask.

When he found the bathroom and its too-damn-long line, he scowled. He was itching to _move_, not stand there with drink still slipping down his shirt, getting stared at even more than normal.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the wall then noticed the black velvet rope that blocked off the punched-steel staircase leading up to the floor above. _This many people waiting, and there's probably ten private bathrooms upstairs... Fuck that._

He pushed away from the wall and ducked under the rope. Annoyed voices rose up after him, but he ignored them for the second time. He really didn't care if he got tossed out at this point anyway. He might even be grateful.

.

.

Grimmjow watched the kid's scowl darken as he moved further from his table.

The look had a hard edge to it he preferred over the fake, laughing bullshit he'd been spreading on since the group sat down. He tilted his head and considered the kid, eyes sliding from orange hair to the tight curve of jaw. The line of his throat then down to where it disappeared inside that clinging, black shirt.

The resemblance was unnerving. They even moved the same.

Almost.

But the smile was all wrong.

This wasn't who he was looking for.

His fist curled tighter around his glass where it hung two stories above the shifting dance floor. People below crawled over each other, drawn to the dark club like oversexed cockroaches. The heat and restless energy was usually something he liked. Tonight, it grated on his nerves and made him want to claw out of his skin just to get away.

One more mind-numbing task in an already boring day. But what wasn't?

Should've known it wouldn't be him.

The guy he was looking for wasn't stupid enough to show up in any place Grimmjow owned. Every thug and legitimate employee on his payroll had been falling over each other for weeks trying to be the one to hand over who he wanted.

The disheveled, orange head disappeared a moment later, camouflaged by a sea of equally bright outfits and dyed tresses.

Just as well. Grimmjow had places to be.

"Ah, Grimmjow-kun, that's such a scary look."

His back stiffened and he twisted to glance at the intruding voice, growling under his breath. "Fuck off, ain't in the mood."

The man laughed. "Yes, I see. Perhaps missing your young—"

The crystalline splitting of glass only just reached him over the blood rushing his ears. The next he knew, he had the bastard by the face, pushing him over the railing.

Urahara's body bowed back and he made gratifying sounds that had Grimmjow inching his weight further. Hanging it over the crowd. Ignoring the reflexive wriggling and grappling for a hold on his arm.

And all he had to do was let go. It wouldn't take more than that to make this irritating bastard a memory. Killing was a hell of a thing. Made you feel like a god for all of a few seconds. Like cocaine except without the down. Grimmjow could already see him falling through empty air. The crowd below screaming and parting.

Blood buzzed under his skin like electricity.

Except offing their neutral party during negotiations wasn't anything short of begging for one of Aizen's overdone, generally _avoided _executions. That thought alone both fed and stalled his murderous rage.

Inch by inch, he loosened his grip until the lucky fucker slid back over the side. He could feel every knot of spine that rasped across the guardrail. He hoped it hurt like a bitch later. A good reminder of how close Urahara had come to never opening that annoying hole in his face again.

Hand still around his jaw, he leaned in until they were sharing air and snarled, "I never gave a shit enough about anything to miss it, an' I sure as fuck didn't start for that slut piece a gutter trash."

The blonde took a choked breath when Grimmjow released him, backing away, rasping out words that sounded something like "My mistake," but just came out a gasping wheeze.

The muted patter of something striking the ground by his foot pulled at his attention. The glass was still in his hand. Only now, a fractured web of cracks crisscrossed the surface, a shard biting into the pad of his thumb.

"Jaegerjaquez-sama. The meeting is reopened."

His eyes panned over Urahara's retreating shoulder to Shawlong. He barely saw him. Still riding the lethal edge of his temper, the world was like black and white.

"Your hand is bleeding."

Grimmjow thunked the glass on a nearby table, looking for a napkin he didn't see. "No shit. The fuck's the point a this anyway? We all wanna fuckin' slice each other's guts out and everyone knows it."

Shawlong tensed.

"Grimmjow," the composed voice started from behind him, "It's poor conduct to discuss business outside of closed doors. And it seems you're injured. Again."

_Fucking shit._

His teeth clenched to keep the curse locked in his mouth, and he turned just enough to see Aizen standing behind him. All polished, mahogany tresses over pleasant features. One strand hung longer than the others, falling over his forehead.

Grimmjow wanted to rip it off. Shoot it off. And hopefully leave the bullet lodged in the bastard's brain.

He wasn't fucking injured. It was a cut. A cut could happen with paper. Or a sharp plastic. Or a thick, serrated, hunting blade wedged right below the ribs. _That_ would be an injury. Fuck, he wanted to show him the difference so bad his fingers ached.

His lip fought a curl. "S'fine. Cheap glass."

Aizen shook his head.

"I take good care of my people, Grimmjow. And you are my people, aren't you? I have a personal physician, I'm only too happy to call him."

Grimmjow seeing a fucking doctor for a cut finger… He'd be a joke. Less than that. Weak leaders didn't live long in this line. People that weren't _feared_ didn't last long.

Asshole. Fucking son of a bitch bastard and his veiled threats. He hoped he rotted and burned in the deepest fucking trenches of hell. Got hit by a car. Someone put that bullet in his head. Grimmjow didn't fucking care. He didn't even care if it was _him_.

_That_ was how much he hated the manipulative fuck.

He was shaking just to keep his hand from moving against his will to find a weapon, only just managing to bite out something about washing it or some other bullshit.

Then he was moving through a burning haze.

He left down the stairs, exited down into the level below just to put extra space between him and the man that dangled his life on a string as if it were a kid's game.

Employer or not, he hated Aizen. Hated him like he'd never hated anything. Not the pang of hunger in the dead of winter or the feel of a barrel resting at the back of his neck. Not even failure matched, because every single day he spent under the man's thumb felt like failure.

His pulse pounded inside his head, the muscles in his hands and forearms curled tight under skin.

The second level wasn't near as crowded as the first, but people parted around him all the same. Some because they recognized him, some because he must've looked as close to curb stomping someone's face as he felt. There was a couple crushing snow off the sidewall far from the rails. A handful of girls dancing and grinding together. In the back corner, one of Gin's men had his arms resting on the top of a sofa while a head bobbed into sight then out again.

All of it was on the sidelines. Old news. Boring.

He cut toward the men's sign. His private bathrooms were on the top floor, but getting away from that bastard before he snapped was equivalent to survival. Someone ordering him around in his own fucking territory. It was maddening.

His cell vibrated and he snatched it out of his pocket, glancing down, wondering if it was a response to one of the million and a half threatening messages he'd left his runaway bitch as he threw open the bathroom door.

Only it bounced off something.

Or someone.

He snarled, "Fuckin' watch it."

The message was from Shawlong. They were going back in. He stuffed the phone back inside his pocket.

"You fucking watch it, asshole."

His foot stuck to the floor halfway to the sink, the familiar hit of adrenaline washing through his veins. The lash of sensation flashed through system as potent and electrifying as any drug. This was exactly what he needed, some senseless punk, some badass wannabe, to wreck beyond repair so he could lose some pent frustration.

His head tipped back as he grinned at nothing, and then turned to give the owner of that voice an appraising look.

It was the kid. The scowling brat from earlier.

Angry brown eyes sparked like shards of amber from under hair the shade of warm copper. The strange coloring stood out more in the fluorescent lighting, stark enough to be disorienting for a half second.

This close, the similarity knocked the air out of him.

_The fuck?_

It wasn't like him to be thrown off so many times in close succession.

Taking a step forward, he reclaimed his grin, emphasizing the height difference. The size difference. "Maybe ya didn't hear me right, I said to watch the fuck out."

"And I said no."

The orange scowl deepened, but the kid didn't step away or scramble to take the words back and something about that had Grimmjow's stomach tightening in ways that didn't have shit to do with busting a smart-mouthed brat's head open on a bathroom sink.

His eyes skimmed down the lines of the close-fitting top that did nothing to hide the body under it. The tight black shirt was gone, only a loose tank hung from his shoulders, leaving a stretch of exposed golden skin around his neck and shoulders. Faded jeans hugged low on lean hips.

His hands itched to slide them lower.

The kid wasn't bad looking.

Too bad he didn't have time for a side project the way Aizen was breathing down his dick. And even if he had, it'd send the wrong message to keep a replacement fuck that could've been a carbon copy of his last trick.

Then again, he also couldn't let the brat walk out after a direct challenge like that.

Grimmjow's grin turned ugly. "You're lucky I don't feel like killin' ya just now."

.

.

Ichigo fought a losing battle not to roll his eyes.

"Am I supposed to be impressed by that?"

A strong hand fisted into the thin cloth at his collar.

The bastard was fast, any quicker and Ichigo wouldn't have seen him move. As it was, he hardly managed to keep his head from cracking on the tile. His shoulders hit the hard surface and Ichigo hissed a sharp breath, not sure if it was from the suddenness or the icy wall on his back.

He glared up into a grinning face and reigned in his irritation.

One more aggressive move like that, and he was going to break something on this guy. Preferably the arm keeping him pinned.

"Ya didn't let me finish," he said, stepping closer, low voice tickling Ichigo's ear. "I don't feel like killing you _yet_. So don't fuckin' push me."

He scoffed. "Is that a joke? You hit me."

"It's a rough world, kid."

The bastard pulled his head back and gave another blinding grin, flashing perfect, white teeth.

Ichigo could only stare, mouth dropping a fraction. There wasn't even any reason behind that logic.

"Are you high?"

The answering laugh made his back tense further and his toes curl in his shoes. The attention might've been flattering if this guy didn't also need to be committed.

For just a second, he let his eyes wander.

A strong jaw, hard shoulders over a lithe frame, enough muscle to hold him without apparent effort, chaotic, blue hair in a shade Ichigo couldn't put a name to straightaway—

Cerulean eyes gleamed and Ichigo flushed, twisting his face away.

"Like it?"

"No," he growled. "I'm not into dangerous assholes."

"I ain't shown ya dangerous, brat."

"I also don't like to be called brat."

"Then what's yer name, _kid_?"

"Fuck you."

"I like that. It suits ya." He considered Ichigo a long moment. "What're ya doin' tonight?"

Ichigo blinked, edging back before he remembered the wall. How had the conversation turned that fast?

Did that line ever even work?

"Not what you're thinking."

And no, he wasn't entertaining the idea. It wasn't even an option. Ichigo wasn't the type for a one-night stand or an any-night stand for that matter.

"Yeah? And why not?" The blue haired male leaned closer and breathed. "Ya smell like fruit."

That tone of voice made his bones weak, but Ichigo refused to show it. If that was meant as a joke, it was a bad one.

"You stare at me all night, hit me with a door, threaten to kill me, and then think I'd still be interested in screwing you?"

This guy was trouble. Really bad trouble. The kind that might end with a night in jail or a life sentence. And worse, he was fighting hard not to find it appealing. The bastard didn't even try to deny that he'd been watching him.

"Know what I think? I think you're bored out of your mind with those friends of yours."

Ichigo frowned. Where had that come from?

He hesitated. "I'm not. And the answer is no."

"Why?"

"Because I don't like the way you look at me."

The smirk he got was lopsided. "And how do I look at ya?"

"Like you're thinking of every possible point of exit to remove my liver."

The guy laughed, a deep bark that made Ichigo blink and frown harder. That comment was intended to be an insult, and the guy didn't seem like an idiot.

"Grimmjow. That's the name, kid, and if I intended to make money off ya, there are a lot of easier ways."

He gave Ichigo another once over and Ichigo's fist clenched.

This guy was… He didn't have words. Everything he said made Ichigo want to hit him. _And still_, the asshole was devastatingly attractive. Time to go.

"Pass."

Catching the hand still tangled in his shirt, he twisted.

There was no howl of pain, only a hitched curse as the male was forced to move the way Ichigo wanted. He slipped under the opposite arm and released the hold, stopping just short of the exit and telling himself he wasn't running— only to be shoved face first into the closed door.

He snarled at the weight pressing against his back and the hand that gripped his hair.

What a fucking persistent bastard…

Ichigo didn't get it. He'd had insistent pursuers, but never someone that couldn't take no for an answer— didn't even seem to know what the word meant. There wasn't any way he was getting out of this without some maneuvering. Hopefully this idiot was too stoned to notice.

He was saying something, but Ichigo cut him off.

"Grimmjow, right? You really want to fuck me?" he breathed.

There was a pause, the hard chest at his back reverberating with a thoughtful sound. A hand skimmed down Ichigo's waist and he sucked in a breath when a thousand tiny thunderbolts fluttered through his stomach.

"I like the way ya play kid, but don't fuckin' tease."

He bit his lip and cursed himself as the hand went lower, and gasped out, "Not here."

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah. It does. I'm not fucking in a bathroom."

The male at his back blew an amused breath and whipped him around. He braced a hand on the door behind Ichigo's head and pinned him with that penetrating, blue gaze. "I ain't a nice kinda guy, but I'll put up with this shit if ya make it worth it. Ya cross me and I'll fucking kill you, got it?"

When Ichigo nodded, he lifted a finger and twitched it to bring Ichigo a step closer. Grimmjow didn't need to say what he wanted for Ichigo to understand.

Pulling his lower lip between his teeth, he let it drag out before rising up on his toes to press his mouth into Grimmjow's.

There was a second where Grimmjow stiffened. Ichigo thought he would pull back, but he snorted instead, tilting his head and leaning into it.

He tasted like alcohol, something sweet and sharp that made Ichigo's tongue tingle. Pressing in closer, Ichigo released a distressed sound against that firm mouth, not sure how something this simple could go straight to his blood and then his head and then his dick. His hand was crawling up Grimmjow's chest, curling into fabric when he felt it. The air puffing across his cheek, the low chuckle.

He pulled back, muddled and a little kiss drugged, wondering if he'd taken it too far, because Grimmjow was laughing at him. What the hell? What _the hell_?

Grimmjow grinned.

"Yeah, great. Now kiss my dick."

Ichigo blinked, then turned red when he realized what Grimmjow had actually been asking for in the first place.

Embarrassed, he brought his knee up into Grimmjow's crotch. It was a bitch move, but so was cornering someone in the bathroom and pressuring them for sex.

Shoving the larger body off, he yanked open the door, nearly barreling into a silver haired man as he flew through it. Sidestepping, he darted straight for the back stair that let him up. And he wasn't running. He was just leaving the bathroom quickly and before that psycho could pull him back in and either beat him or fuck him within an inch of his life.

Probably beat him, but with the blood still pumping low in his gut, Ichigo's mind wasn't exactly working on logic.

A shiver worked down his spine as he took the steps and moved back into the crowd. He tore toward his table, trying very hard not to think of it as base, because hopefully, he wasn't being chased. Grimmjow wouldn't follow him all the way back, would he?

Ice water slid into his gut and he turned to look over his shoulder.

He didn't see him—No, wait. There. On the second floor, following after the silver haired guy Ichigo had nearly plowed down, heading to the upper levels. The levels that implied money or influence. Maybe that was why Grimmjow had such a hard time hearing the word no.

Ichigo shook his head.

"Yo, Ichigo, you get lost?" Renji blinked up at him, gaze focusing for a second. "Somethin' wrong? You look… I dunno. Freaked out."

Glancing back again, he slid back into his chair and looked around the table. A dozen faces in various degrees of inebriation looked back. Some of them hadn't even been there when he'd left. He brushed it off with a shake of his head, and then made a disgruntled noise when Keigo put another round of drinks on his tab.

"When the hell did I get a tab? I haven't even drank anything."

"I know, bud. You better get started. This is your party, right?"

Ichigo glared. "Well, it was supposed to be."

Was he magnetic in some way that attracted creepy weirdoes and closet drunks? How were all his friends such losers?

Someone batted at him. If batted meant slamming a tiny knuckled fist into his shoulder with the force of a miniature atom bomb.

He looked down at Rukia and raised a brow. At least, she didn't seem half as wasted as everyone else. "Geez, I'm going to need that arm after tonight. Could you try not to pulverize it?"

She fixed her violet tinged eyes at him and lifted a package until it rested under his nose. "I got you something."

He frowned and took the small, brightly wrapped gift. Slime couldn't have felt lower as he tore open a corner, wishing he hadn't bitten her head off. "You didn't have to do that, Rukia. It's not like I got you anything for…" He blinked and held it up. "_How to Reconcile the Loss of a Loved One_." He squinted. "You got me a self-help book? Are you dysfunctional? What kind of present is—?"

Renji draped himself across his back to whisper into his ear as quiet as a foghorn. "Just take the damn present, man. You don't want to piss her off again."

Renji laughed, elbowing over the pyramid of shot glasses beside him.

Ichigo sighed. "Renji, give me your keys."

It figured he would end up the designated driver at his own party.

Maybe he should've taken Grimmjow up on that offer after all.

.

.

Two hours later, he was shoving his friends into cabs.

He bundling Keigo and Ikkaku in first. Then Tatsuki and her girlfriend. Then someone he didn't even know. He slammed the door on the guy's face when he asked to borrow money.

Rukia stopped him with a hand clutching his jacket when he tried to help her. Her eyes were the odd tone of serious she took sometimes that scared the hell out of him. "Read the book, Ichigo. It wasn't a joke. It helped me after my sister—"

He nodded and disengaged her arm to start the process of packing her inside the car. "I'm fine, Rukia. You know that."

Renji leaned forward from the other side. "Don't argue, man. Just take the advice. We just want what's best for you."

"Thanks, dad." He scowled. "Is there a reason you people take such an unnatural interest in my life? Try focusing on yourselves for once." Turning, he pinned Ishida and Inoue with a look. "You two have something to say?"

Inoue gave a strained smile and Ichigo felt like shit. Ishida pushed his glasses up with a disgusted breath, eyes closed. His arm tightened around her shoulders.

"You're a pig, Kurosaki."

_I know I am. I know._

Rukia got hold of his arm again and he sighed. Awesome. His friends all thought he was a basket case. Maybe he was. The only plus of the situation was that they all knew from personal experience.

But the chances of her remembering any of this in the morning were low, so why not?

"Alright, I'll do it. Just get in the car."

A few seconds later, he had her stuffed inside, and the cab launched away and the next pulled up. He opened the door, handing Inoue down gently and unceremoniously shoving Ishida's ass inside with his foot.

Ishida gave a muffled umph, glaring murder back before giving up on finding the right ends of the buckles. He knotted the two opposite belts together before snuggling down beside Inoue with an obvious air of superiority.

"Yeah, you sure showed me, dumbass. I'm gonna remind you about that every day for a month," he scoffed under his breath as the vehicle pulled away. "Idiot."

Glancing back at Chad, he managed a half smile.

"You want a cab too?"

"I don't mind the walk." Chad paused then remembered that he'd been speaking. "My apartment isn't far."

Ichigo snorted. Chad rarely drank. It was easier to forgive. He also hardly ever gave Ichigo a hard time, drunk or not. And _that_ made almost anything he did ten times more likeable.

"Whatever you think. Don't get hit by a car."

He got a grunt back. "Happy Birthday, Ichigo. Careful on your way home."

Frowning, he turned back toward the nearly empty parking lot to find Renji's bike, walking the opposite direction.

Who said he was going home? It _was_ his birthday, wasn't it?

Slumping, trudged passed a row of spaces.

Was he really that boring and predictable? Hard to believe he'd once had a reputation for being a troublemaker. When had he decided to get so… stable? He might've written it off as part of growing up, except most of his friends were a year or two older than him and they still acted like teenagers.

The bike was sitting under a streetlamp around the side. Pulling the helmet from the handle, he stuffed the book into the compartment on the back.

His eyes darted away from the happy family on the cover.

He hated this. He hated this person he was.

It reminded him of the bored faces from the VIP floor.

That's how he felt.

Like he was standing on the sidelines of his own life, watching everyone else enjoy it more than him. It was a struggle that never seemed to stop. If he didn't keep moving forward, he slid back. And there were too many ghosts in his past for him to be all right living his life in reverse.

So here he was, out and celebrating. Scratching out a life for himself. Determined to be better, or at least fake it enough that no one could tell the difference.

And he wasn't even managing that.

So why was he bothering?

.

.

Grimmjow slammed the back door behind him, his skin burning with repressed anger and the frustration of going too long without a fix. He fished out a cigarette and flipped open his lighter, igniting the end before taking a long drag and tilting his head back to let it back out.

It wasn't what he wanted, but it still felt damn good.

Rounding the back fence, he snarled at whatever dumb fuck was stupid enough to touch his fucking car before the sinewy cut of body and unmistakable hair registered.

The kid was leaning against one side, arms crossed and head tilted back to watch the moon.

A grin worked over his face as he crossed the lot and stepped close enough for his stalker to notice him.

The kid turned, pushing off his paint job. He looked nervous and that suited Grimmjow fine. Smart brat. He should be uneasy. He was dealing with a predator. And after the trouble he'd been, a quick fuck in the back of a car wouldn't cut it.

This one was feisty. Good. He didn't like his fuckmates spineless.

Grimmjow didn't take his eyes off him as he pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked the car. Then he slid into the driver's seat and started it.

The passenger side opened and closed, and the kid's breath huffed into a cloud in front of him. He rubbed his palms over his legs.

Grimmjow shook his head. He shouldn't take this kid home. But he shouldn't do a lot of things. In the end, Grimmjow just did whatever the fuck he wanted. Everyone knew that.

Flicking his cigarette out the window, he smirked, shifted into drive, and pulled out of the parking lot.

.

.

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Thank you for reading :) Review?


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